


Too sharp a tongue

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Series: Alea iacta est [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5069434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a while for Sansa to warm up to Tyrion Lannister.</p>
<p>She gets there eventually, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too sharp a tongue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ValueTurtle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueTurtle/gifts).



**i.**

The first time you meet him, he is drunk. 

You will learn that this is not unusual. You will never learn to like it, even after you understand the why of it.

**ii.**

He wears a tie-pin in the shape of a lion in motion, a golden stretch of grace and power across the exquisite red silk of his untidy tie.

_It is the lioness who hunts,_ you tell him, reaching over unconsciously to tap a finger against the flowing mane of his little lion.  _The male may be king, but he is ruled by his women._

He looks thoughtful when you say it, and a little queasy, and mutters something about knowing the truth of that.

 

**iii.**

His middle name is  _Gerold._  You know the origin of this name, the associations, and wonder if his parents hoped to counter the misfortunes fate and the gods visited on him by placing such a famous weight on his narrow shoulders.

You ask him as much, after a magnificently crushing defeat in court and one vodka martini too many, and he laughs. There is bitterness in the laugh, like the sharpness of whiskey under ginger ale, but you have never seen him laugh before, and are fascinated by the way it curves his soft mouth. 

_They gave me the name Tyrion first,_ he says.  _Look into that before you think any good of my parents, Miss Stark._

**iv.**

You do not ask Tyrion Gerold Lannister about his parents again after that, not even much later, when you think that maybe you have a right to ask. 

Instead, you ask about his uncles, who he speaks of with fondness, and his brother, who he loves. You have uncles of whom you are fond, and brothers you love, as well as a sister you love despite your differences.

Tyrion, you think, might hate his sister in part because of their similarities, but it might also be because of her being a rampant bitch.

**v.**

You never go to him for help, even though you know that he is Joffrey’s uncle and a KC besides. He of all people  _could_  help, but his relationship with his family is tenuous enough without your dragging him into another conflict, just because Joffrey is beyond your control.

He does not ask, when you arrive into work after a long weekend with a black eye and a split lip, after you have asked Arya and Robb and Uncle Bran for help and Joffrey took his frustration at being outgunned and caught mostly unawares out on you. He does smile, though, and call you  _a very proud woman._

He means it as a compliment, but you cannot take it as such. He describes his mother in the same terms, after all.

**vi.**

He  _does_  mean it as a compliment, you come to understand, because he loves his mother as much as as he hates her.

You don’t understand how he does it, don’t understand how love and hate can live alongside one another. Your love burned out as hatred clawed its way into your heart, sinking in a little deeper with every new bruise, but perhaps it is different for family. You’re lucky enough not to know.

**vii.**

Sex comes first. 

You were always told that sex should come after love, by your mother and by your teachers at your good school, but here, that would be backwards. 

Irritation and dislike came long before attraction and fondness, after all. Annoyance at his sharp tongue and your stubborn refusal to bend the rules came far in advance of amusement at his sharp wit and your stubborn refusal to take off your heels in the office.

So sex comes first, you removing the clip and pins from your hair and letting it loose as you settle over him in his elegant swivel chair, both of you laughing when it spins as you toss back your hair to let the light at his face. 

His eyes are bright, even in the dusk, and he looks at you like you are a goddess, which is far more flattering than any of his intentional compliments.

**viii.**

_Tell me why you let me fuck you_  he demands of you, one day when he is angry. _Tell me why a girl like you would spread her legs for a man like me._

Sex comes first. It stops second.

**ix.**

You transfer to the White Harbour office of the Crown Prosecution Service shortly afterwards, berating yourself for your lack of professionalism, for the lack of ethics in your behaviour towards your  _direct superior,_ and settle easily into the pattern of things up north.

The air here tastes of home, after all, like ice on the tip of your tongue, and there is a snowfall on your first day of work. It feels like a welcome home, just like the care packages that arrive from Mum and Dad and Arya do, and you are certain that this is the right thing to do. 

You are not running away, no matter that Tyrion accused you of just that when he saw your transfer request on Barristan’s desk. Nothing ever quite worked out for you down south, so it makes  _sense_  to come home.

**x.**

You go down south again for a funeral - not Barristan’s, which you might have expected, but for Tyrion’s father’s.

His mother is a beautiful, austere woman, who accepts your sympathies with a sniff and a graceful nod, whereas his sister is half-wild, half-drunk, and wholly awful, an older, female Joffrey. The brother seems almost unhinged, and Joffrey holds his siblings back so they cannot acknowledge you any more than he does.

Tyrion laughs to see you, a bright, brittle burst of sound that crackles like frost in the air between them, even though the day is warm and bright, as golden as the mines in which the Lannisters made their fortune.

_I did not expect you,_ he says, pulling her down by the hand so he can kiss her cheek. He smells of brandy and cigarettes, and there is something haggard in his eyes, despite the presence of gel in his hair and the absence of stubble on his jaw. _Come on, let’s get a drink._

There are other people whose sympathies he ought to accept, but he apparently does not care.

Sansa always liked that about him. She cares too much, Arya says, about what others think, and could do with growing a harder shell.

**xi.**

_Why did you come here?_  he asks, and she doesn’t know how such a clever man can be such an idiot.

_You,_ she says slowly,  _are my very best friend. Of course I had to come._

He hated his father, but this is an important day for him all the same. Where else would she be?

_I’m moving to the Lannisport office,_  he tells her, a glass of ice water held in both hands and his eyes focused firmly on the rainbow shattering over his fingers. _There’s another opening. Looking for a leggy redhead._

You smile despite yourself. 

**xii.**

_Twelve steps is an awful lot for legs as short as mine_  he says dubiously after his first meeting. You’re at work still, even though it’s nearly midnight, because there’s a girl who might have been you and a boy who might have been Joffrey, in an unhappier world, and it hits too close to home to let go.

Lannisport is a long way from home, but the breezes off the Sunset Sea are sometimes viciously cold, so you feel a little less displaced than you had in King’s Landing. It’s not so bad, except when cases like this cross your desk.

Tyrion isn’t working on this one - you haven’t worked together as much as he’d like, you know, but you don’t mind, because it lets you flex your muscles and feel a little less as if you moved because he asked you to - but he knew you’d still be here, so he dropped by after the meeting. It was hard on him, you can tell, but it will do him good in the long run.

He likes talking so much that you think this  _has_  to help. He can put that loose tongue of his to good use outside of a courtroom, for once.

_It’s not as if you’ll be walking them alone_  you tell him, not looking up from the coroner’s report.  _I’ve come this far with you, twelve more steps is nothing for a leggy redhead._


End file.
